Apparently I was about to die. Yes, you read that right. I am a living miracle of sorts. Befuddled as I am byt he whole experience, I am a walking question mark aloof in an unreal world were Mr. Trump reigns at his whims, democracy is practically dead because the rich own the rule book and the rest of the world is just miffed and struck dumbed by the whole lot and experience. I had opened heart surgery, had a pair of mechanical part stuck in my ticker and now in debt to my neighbor who found me in a cellar in our house building before I totally succumbed to a bacteria feasting on my flesh. I was induced on a cocktail of drugs I now fear to meet again in my life because surgery in Sweden still relies on narkos which is a drug that induces weird dreams of sorts totally aligned with the horror movie Saw. I was persecuted by people that wanted my body organs and I only realize now that said dreams were caused by the open heart surgery. Only god knows how that went.
It is only after this year that I am able to dedicate a few writing letters to the lot of it. I have since a while left my life’s calling, to write and read. I am still at conflict with my languages and my surroundings and everything else that impacts my daily devenir as we in Spanish. I just wanted to get back to work as soon as I could regain my old self. I yearned for work, routine craved its rightful place. I wanted to be at work but I worked with the caregivers as I recovered from the operation I had and which I had no clue about. Sometimes my brain works to my advantage. I suppose my brain which I deem detached from the rest of body helped the lot to recuperate at its own pace. It is only in retrospect I know how bad it was. I still remember how shocked I was to discover the scar in my chest, I was taken aback by own recognizance of the fact. I wasn’t fazed by the machinery coming out of my flesh while I lay in the hospital’s cot though I do remember complaining about the comfortableness of it and how the Swedish assistant nurses did something about it. They did try to make my stay as good as possible. I remember that I was invited to go back to the hospital to go over the whole experience and I felt they tried to explain to me what went on as if the whole experience was sorta negative to which I reacted that I did not experienced it as negative.
I have some notes taken during my induced anesthesia. Notes the nurses who watched over me took. I haven’t read them. I read some words or sentences, a day here and a day there, nothing I would profoundly seek. I guess I don’t work like that. Times flies so fast that it reminds one of my profession, reflection is an old adage time manages to erase with a swipe. So I now take pills on the clock to be able to survive. I guess. I, in usual fashion haven’t dwelt too much on the new circumstance. One can wonder indeed why does it take long and linger for me to comprehend the whole lot, but it is what it is. I take pills and go about my life as if what happened just was nada. About this date I was still in the grips of the health care system in Sweden and here I am nearly back to old dipsomaniac self if not completely back except I have pills to add to the cocktail.
I have scars that map the doctors trayectory to fix me. They know what they do. Their bedside manners are quite the other story, I have a few grudges to speak of but that’s for the memory bank I think. The scars map what happened. Pin point the way. I remember how they punched a hole on me because my bladder, I think that is what it was, a weird bag within my gut was about to explode, so they drove a needle to suck the waste near the liver and I went about daily life for a few weeks with a bag to drain the vile that accumulated over the autumn of 2023. I seem to recall I was a bit offended to land in the infectious wing of the Jönköping hospital because of my necro bug that ran amock within me. What a trip. to think I don’t know how it started and I blamed my Mexico trip to the south for it. Frankly, I still haven’t a clue where it all started.
While at the infectious wing of the hospital area I remember I relearned how to walk. Yes, I lost the ability to walk but it did not scare me. I can’t understand how that went about. I just wasn’t. It piques my curiosity though, in hindsight, why it didn’t. It turned out though, after some scanning to my vertebrae, that the necro-loving bacteria that took hold of my fleshy constitution did a number on my lower spine. Some bone got whose number I am amiss to to recall, chewed my bone properly. I always am befuddled about my brain works. It has a huge capacity to be an airhead. No offense to my grey matter off course. I love that bastard, it took me through unscathed through this journey.